CHAPTER 13 #2
"I know, Ma. He’s always treated me with the utmost respect," I said, smiling softly as I pictured the elderly white man with his pristine apron and impeccably polite demeanor. "Him, his two daughters, and his wife, Ms. Dora. They’ve always been so sweet to me. Every time I walk past their house, they’re asking how I’m doing, making sure I’m eating right.
Just real, genuine people. Great mannerisms."
"You definitely need to go to that," my mother insisted. "Get your mind off all this madness. Go get you some of that brisket and some of Ms. Dora’s potato salad. It’ll do your soul some good."
"Yeah, I’m gonna get myself prepared in a minute," I murmured, my mind already spinning with an idea.
I tapped my chin, looking at the kitchen clock.
"Honestly, Ma... I was wondering if I should invite Joshua, too.
I know Mr. Thomas wouldn't mind at all. He loves company, and he’d probably love talking to another professional man like Joshua. "
"That’s a wonderful idea, baby. Call him up and see if he can get away from that office of his. Lord knows that man probably needs a good meal after the night he had."
"Alright, Ma, I’m gonna call him now. I’ll talk to you later, okay? Love you."
"Love you too, Ciara. And keep your doors locked!"
I hung up the phone, a small sense of purpose finally settling over me.
I immediately dialed Joshua’s number, wanting to hear his deep, reassuring baritone.
The phone rang three times before it clicked open, but instead of the quiet background of his home, I heard the faint, ambient hum of his office—the soft whirring of the white noise machine he always kept by the door to ensure patient privacy.
"Ciara," Joshua whispered, his voice low, controlled, and deeply professional, yet carrying a subtle undercurrent of warmth meant strictly for me. "Hey. I’m actually right in the middle of a session with a patient. I'm so sorry, beautiful."
"Oh, damn, I forgot you had Saturday morning clients," I said quickly, feeling a sudden pang of guilt. "I’m sorry for interrupting, Joshua."
"You never have to apologize for calling me," he murmured, and I could practically hear the small, reassuring smile on his lips. "Listen, give me just a little bit. I’m almost done here. I’ll call you back in exactly ten minutes, okay? We'll talk then."
"Okay. Ten minutes. I'll be waiting."
The line went dead, and I set the phone down on the counter.
Ten minutes. I needed to occupy my time so I wouldn't sit here letting my mind wander back into the dark spaces it had been occupying since last night.
I looked around the apartment and noticed the laundry basket in the corner of the living room, overflowing with dark clothes and hoodies.
Perfect. A mindless, domestic chore to keep my hands moving.
I carried the heavy plastic basket into the small laundry closet near the bathroom.
I dumped the load into the washing machine, the scent of stale detergent and denim filling the small space.
To shake off the lingering heaviness of the morning, I pulled out my portable Bluetooth speaker and paired it with my phone.
I needed something with a rhythm, something that felt like a good vibe.
I selected a Ne-Yo playlist, and within seconds, the smooth, soaring falsetto and the crisp, syncopated R&B beat of "Sexy Love" filled the apartment, bouncing off the bare walls and filling the space with a contagious, uplifting energy.
I started moving to the beat, my hips swaying as I measured out a cup of liquid detergent, the bright blue liquid pouring in a thick, slow stream into the machine.
I closed the lid and slammed the dial inward, the machine responding with a deep, rhythmic chugging sound as the water began to rush in.
I was fully in my element now, dancing my way back into the living room, tossing an empty laundry basket into the closet, snapping my fingers and singing along to the lyrics.
The music was loud, a thick barrier of sound that isolated me from the rest of the world, building a genuine, much-needed vibe.
For the first time in twelve hours, the tight knot in my chest began to loosen.
I spun around near the front entryway, laughing to myself, feeling the rhythm in my bones, letting the music wash away the stains of Morgan’s chaotic existence.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The sound was sudden, violent, and heavy enough to vibrate through the floorboards beneath my feet. It wasn't a normal knock. It was a vicious, aggressive pounding that completely cut through the bass of the music.
I froze in the center of the living room, my breath catching in my throat.
My heart, which had just found a steady, peaceful rhythm, instantly kicked into a frantic, hyper-accelerated gallop.
I walked slowly toward the front entryway, my bare feet making no sound against the floor.
The pounding came again, louder this time, rattling the deadbolt inside the frame, threatening to splinter the old wood of the door.
I reached out, my hand trembling slightly as I looked through the tiny glass peephole. My stomach dropped into a bottomless, icy pit. The distorted, fish-eye view revealed a face I never wanted to see again.
Morgan.
His skin looked sallow, gray, and slick with a greasy layer of sweat.
His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and rimmed with a manic, terrifying darkness.
The veins in his forehead were standing up like thick, angry worms beneath his skin.
He looked like a man who hadn’t slept in days, a man completely unhinged and operating on pure, toxic adrenaline.
Anger, hot and blinding, instantly burned away my fear. I unlocked the deadbolt with a sharp, metallic click and yanked the door open, my posture rigid, my eyes narrowing into slits.
"Nigga, what the fuck you doing at my door when you should be in cuffs?" I spat, my voice laced with pure, unadulterated venom. I stood square in the frame, refusing to give him an inch of space.
"You have the cops digging up my place, bitch!" Morgan spat back, his breath smelling heavily of stale liquor and cheap tobacco. Before I could even process the movement, his large hand shot forward, planting firmly against my shoulder, and he delivered a violent, explosive push.
The sheer force of it caught me completely off guard.
My feet slipped on the slick hardwood floor, and I flew backward, losing my balance entirely.
I crashed heavily onto the floor, my hip and elbow taking the brunt of the impact against the hard wood, a sharp, white-hot flash of pain rocketing up my side.
Before I could even scramble to my feet, Morgan stepped over the threshold, slammed the heavy front door shut behind him, and threw the deadbolt into place with a definitive, terrifying clack.
The apartment suddenly felt entirely too small, the air thick and claustrophobic as the Ne-Yo track continued to blast ironically in the background.
I lay on the floor for a split second, my breath knocked out of me, staring up at him with a mixture of shock and lethal fury. I propped myself up on my elbows, my teeth gritted so hard I thought they might crack. "No, you didn't. You did not just lay your fucking hands on me in my own house."
"Shut the fuck up, C!" he fumed, his voice a harsh, ragged scream that cracked under the weight of his anger.
He paced back and forth in the narrow hallway like a caged animal, his hands twitching at his sides, his chest heaving violently.
"Shut the fuck up! You think you slick? You think you can just run around with your new boyfriend and ruin my whole fucking life? "
"You ruined your own damn life, Morgan!" I shouted from the floor, trying to shift my weight to get my feet under me. "Get the fuck out of my apartment!"
"You made the cops take Tesha in!" he roared, stepping closer, his heavy timberland boots stopping mere inches from my legs.
"They raided the spot, C! They found the fucking stash!
They took everything! I didn't take you for a fucking sellout, a dirty-ass informant! But ever since you started moving with that doctor white boy, you’ve changed!
You think you better than the block now? You think you above this shit?"
"I don't know shit about your stash, and I don't give a fuck about Tesha!
" I said, my voice dripping with cold defiance as I gripped the edge of the sofa, trying to haul myself off the floor.
"I swear to God, Morgan... I’m gonna kill you.
If you don't get out of here right now, I will personally guarantee you never walk again. "
"Let's be about it then!" he screamed.
In one swift, terrifying motion, his hand reached into the waistband of his sagging track pants and pulled out the heavy, matte-black Glock.
The sight of the weapon sent a cold shockwave through my nervous system, but the fear was instantly overridden by a primal, animalistic survival instinct.
He stepped forward and planted his boot firmly against my chest, pushing me violently back down onto the floor, knocking the wind out of my lungs with a painful gasp.
He hunched over me now, his massive shadow completely blocking out the morning sunlight that had been filtering through the window.
He was a terrifying weight hovering over me, the dark barrel of the gun shaking slightly in his grip as he lowered it toward my face.
The metallic smell of the firearm, mixed with his foul body odor, was completely overwhelming.
He didn't pull the trigger. Instead, a sick, twisted smirk spread across his cracked lips.
He lowered the gun, pressing the cold, heavy iron barrel directly against the soft skin of my collarbone.
A violent shudder went through my body as the freezing metal scraped against my flesh, moving slowly, deliberately downward toward my chest.